


Silver

by Zimra



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Character Interpretation, F/M, Gen, Jealousy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 06:53:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4091185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zimra/pseuds/Zimra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Galadriel faces a loss as political tensions in Eregion come to a head.</p><p>(Please see note before reading.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silver

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like this story deserves a disclaimer, considering how popular Celebrimbor is these days. This fic was inspired by a series of Tumblr posts I read a few years ago, and has been sitting unused on my computer ever since. I felt like it was worth posting, but if you're a big Celebrimbor fan you should know that it contains an extremely unflattering portrayal of him, one that doesn't fit prevailing fanon well at all. If that sounds unappealing, you may want to give this one a pass.

The scream was real this time. The phantom shrieks in the nightmares that had plagued her since Annatar’s arrival had left her constantly on edge, but this time the sound pierced through the vague swirling of her dreams and brought her to her senses. She sat up abruptly in bed, every muscle in her body tensed with fear - she knew that voice.

It registered somewhere in her mind that it was cold outside, and she pulled on a pair of shoes and a robe with shaking hands. She all but flew through the dim halls of her house, oblivious to the sounds of people beginning to stir. A second scream, close, unmistakable, drove her onward. _If she has been hurt…_

At last, the corridor opened out before her into the large stone courtyard in the center of the house, enclosed by walls on all sides. Torchlight reflected off the ankle-deep snow and the long blades of a dozen warriors. They stood in a tight semicircle, facing the door from which she had just emerged. All of them wore helmets that obscured most of their faces, except for the man standing in the center of their circle.

She stopped dead, heedless of the cold seeping through her flimsy shoes. Her daughter knelt in the snow before her, shivering in her nightgown, her screams silenced by the blade Celebrimbor held at her throat. Celebrían’s face was tear-stained, and the long silver hair that Galadriel had brushed and braided countless times lay in a tangled mess about her shoulders. Her eyes widened when she saw her mother, her expression full of mingled hope and fear.

Something close to hatred rose within Galadriel; she struggled to contain it and her fear, to stand proud and unbroken in the snow before her own destruction. 

“Artanis.” His bright grey eyes met hers directly. She stared him down, channeling all her emotions into the force of her undeniably powerful gaze, but he did not look away as he so often did. “I thought you might be joining us soon. I am sorry I disturbed you.” His casual tone was sickeningly at odds with the scene before her.

“Celebrimbor,” she answered; it took all the self-control she possessed to sound equally conversational. “I thought you might know better than to stoop to threatening the life of an innocent child.”

He watched her solemnly, seeming perfectly composed. His eyes did not have the crazed look of Curufin’s when she had seen him in the halls of Menegroth. These were not the eyes of a Kinslayer. 

_It is to be a bloodless coup, then._

Her heart settled somewhat. She had seen this coming, or something like it, and she had seen how it would end. It was time for her to move on. Nothing else that happened today mattered, as long as her family made it out of Eregion alive. 

And they would. She would make sure of that, at any cost.

“If you harm a single hair on her head, I will kill you,” she said, her voice colder and harder than the stones of the courtyard buried beneath the snow.

“I have no intention of harming her,” Celebrimbor replied. “But I know you, Artanis. I know that you would never leave Eregion without some reason to do so.” He lifted the knife from Celebrían’s throat and pushed her away more forcefully than necessary. She lay sprawled in the snow, shivering violently, until one of the soldiers seized her arm and pulled her to her feet. Galadriel’s heart lurched as she recognized the face beneath the helmet; Camaenor was one of her daughter’s close friends, a promising young man who was apprenticed to a member of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain. 

“Hold her,” Celebrimbor ordered. Hate permeated his expression for a moment as he glanced back at Celebrían. Galadriel wondered at it; it seemed out of character for her cousin to harbor such revulsion for someone who had done him no harm. What could he possibly have against her child?

 _Silver hair. So like her father._ It always came back to that. He had nothing against the girl, save that she was silver-haired and also Galadriel’s.

“So you intend to use my daughter to drive me from this city,” she said. “Do you mean to keep her here, to ensure that I remain far away?” She made sure the message behind her words was clear: _I will not leave my daughter at your mercy._

Ugly hate momentarily twisted his face again. “I have no desire to keep her here. Take her.”

Galadriel lifted her chin, concealing her relief with a show of fierce pride. “Then will you cast us out into the snow this night, with no provisions or protection?”

“You will have everything you need for a journey to Lindon,” he said harshly. “There are only two things I intend to deprive you of. Trifles, I assure you.”

He advanced toward her, holding the knife aloft in front of him. She noticed with a pang of regret that it was one Narvi had made. Celebrimbor had never been quite the same since his friend’s death; the good-natured dwarf would have been appalled at the current state of affairs in Eregion.

Celebrian screamed again, but Camaenor quickly covered her mouth with a gloved hand. Galadriel forced herself to remain calm. Celebrían was not being actively harmed, and Celeborn was not even in the city as far as she knew, for which she was grateful. She knew that Celebrimbor would not be able to hurt her or her daughter, but she had no idea what sort of qualms he would have about her husband. 

She tried to push such thoughts from her mind; by now Celebrimbor and the knife were rather too close for comfort. Galadriel forced herself to stare straight ahead, even when he moved behind her, placing a hand on her shoulder. What was he planning? 

He grasped a lock of her hair and examined it. She couldn’t suppress a shudder of revulsion. Anyone touching her hair without her permission still produced an involuntary negative reaction, perhaps a result of the teasing she had endured for it as a child, a mark of her Telerin and Vanyarin blood. Or perhaps it was because of the times she had been asked to give some of it away by people who thought she owed them something, thought that they deserved to own a part of her. The memories awoke a long-buried resentment, the anger of a driven, ambitious girl who hated being treated like a child, hated being controlled.

“Through your pride, you have always denied the men of my family your good opinion,” Celebrimbor said, twisting her hair around his fingers. “My grandfather wished only to use your beauty for inspiration. I wished only for a token of your friendship.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him raise the knife. “Before you leave, I shall first deprive you of your pride.”

At the first cut she felt nothing, only a strange lightness on one side of her head. She looked down, and saw the lock of her hair gleaming gold and silver on the snow. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, feeling the knife slice through each strand of hair, until nothing remained below her ears. 

Galadriel opened her eyes. The snow around her was covered in locks of hair, limp and glowing in the torchlight. She heard him address her daughter. “Does your mother not look lovely, Celebrían? Humility becomes her.” He turned back to her; he had never looked more like his father than in that moment, with just a hint of a mocking smile on his face.

She looked him directly in the eyes. “You had better pick it up, cousin. What use is it to you lying in the snow?”

His smile faltered. No doubt he had expected rage or distress, but she pulled her anger within herself, keeping it at a slow burn and focusing all her energy towards her outward calm. Ignoring her remark, he beckoned to one of the soldiers. “Bring the others,” he said, and the man bowed and hastened into the house through another entrance. “You will suffer one more loss before you depart, Artanis. Perhaps this one will come at a greater cost to you.”

The few minutes of silence before the soldier’s return seemed to last an age, but finally Celebrimbor’s messenger emerged from the house. Two others followed him, hauling a third figure between them. They brought him before Celebrimbor, the captive elf stumbling to a halt. 

Galadriel gasped, unable to help it. Celeborn, extremely tall like all of Thingol’s kin, was slumped, barely able to stay on his feet. An enormous dark bruise encircled his right eye, with another forming on his left cheek. Blood from a long, congealing cut beneath his collarbone stained the front of his traveling clothes, and his simple silver braid had begun to unravel.

 _They must have caught him as he returned._ She felt horribly sick at the thought of her husband being accosted at the gates of his own city, or perhaps even the very door of their home.

She was still struggling to process her shock at the sight of him when Celeborn raised his head wearily, and their eyes met. His jaw dropped, and he looked from her head to the pile of hair in the snow, realization dawning as he saw the knife in Celebrimbor’s hand. 

Snarling, he lunged at Celebrimbor, surprising the soldiers and nearly breaking free of their hold. He continued to struggle until Galadriel cried, “Stop! It’s alright.” 

Celeborn turned to look at her, the rage slowly draining from his face. She wasn’t used to seeing him this way; he was usually the most level-headed person she knew. 

“No one has hurt you, either of you?” He looked from his wife to his daughter, who shook her head, still unable to speak. Celeborn scowled at Camaenor, and the younger elf quickly removed his hand from Celebrían’s mouth, though he did not release her.

“I’m fine, Ada,” she assured him, fighting to keep her voice from trembling. Galadriel felt a surge of pride at the way her daughter had kept her composure. 

“As am I,” Galadriel said. “I can see, however, that you are not.” She turned on Celebrimbor, drawing herself up to her full height. “What is the meaning of this, cousin? What has Lord Celeborn done to merit such treatment? How dare you harm a member of my family in my own house!”

“It is no longer your house, I am sorry to say,” said Celebrimbor, keeping the knife pointed at Celeborn. “Nor is it his. He will not be here for much longer, at any rate.”

 _One more loss._ She suddenly became aware of the cold, and barely suppressed a shiver. “Do you mean to murder my husband in front of me? You must know that I will not tolerate such a thing.” 

“Hardly.” Beneath his scornful tone, he sounded defensive, almost hurt. “I am not my father.”

She gritted her teeth. “I am glad to hear it. What are you planning? My patience is gone, Celebrimbor.” 

“Lord Celeborn will not accompany you and your daughter out of Ost-in-Edhil, Artanis,” he said coldly. “Instead, he will remain here and enjoy the hospitality of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain - under careful guard, of course.” 

Galadriel’s stomach clenched. She looked at Celeborn, who stared back, his temper mastered and his face blank. He would be alright; as horrible as it seemed to her, she trusted Celebrimbor. No harm would come to her husband, and that was all she could hope for at the moment. They both knew it.

“Please allow me to say goodbye to him,” she said stiffly, trying her best not to sound like she was giving an order. Celebrimbor nodded, mockingly gracious, and waved his hand. The soldiers released Celeborn, and he stumbled slightly before straightening up to his full height.

She stepped forward a little too quickly and embraced him, letting him lean on her to alleviate some of the burden of standing. He wrapped his long arms around her and whispered, “I’m sorry.” He gingerly touched the ends of her shorn hair. “I should not have reacted. I recalled the way you spoke of your uncle, and suddenly I was more angry that I have been in centuries.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she assured him, placing her hand on his face, avoiding the bruises so she would not have to see him wince. “I am not hurt. Angry, perhaps, but largely on your behalf.”

Celeborn smiled. Relief flooded his face like the dawn, lighting up her field of vision with a steady radiance that overpowered the torches reflecting off the snow. “I am glad, then. It becomes you. Everything does.” He ran his fingers through her hair, sending pleasant shivers down her spine. “You will always be Galadriel.”

She gazed upon him with great tenderness in her eyes, this man who knew all her secrets, who had never asked her for her hair or anything else. He had only given his love, and she had given hers in return. She pulled him toward her and they kissed, the long, desperate kiss of two people who did not know when they would see each other again. Galadriel savored it until Celebrimbor pulled Celeborn away, drawing him roughly back into the clutches of the two soldiers. In that moment, Galadriel wanted more than anything to curse her cousin into oblivion, but instead she smiled, turning the full power of her charm upon him, and said in Quenya, “Jealousy little becomes you, Tyelperinquar.”

There was real pain in his face now, and he looked at her as though she had stabbed him. Through her fury she felt the tiniest pang of regret, but it quickly vanished at the sound of her daughter’s panicked cry. 

“Wait! Ada! Let me go to him!” Celebrían struggled against Camaenor’s grasp, and he released her instantly, without waiting for an order from his lord. The girl rushed to her father, barreling into him and nearly knocking him backwards as she buried her face in his shoulder.

“Celebrían,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head. “Be brave, dear one. Look after your mother for me.” The soldiers, now looking very uncomfortable, tried to pull him back, but Celebrían clung to him until her mother gently pried her arms away. At a word from Celebrimbor, the soldiers led him away and out of sight, back into the house. However many years passed before Galadriel saw her husband again, she knew it would be far too many.

“Withdraw,” said Celebrimbor, with a sharp gesture towards the entrance to the house. The remaining warriors filed out, Camaenor lagging behind just a little. Celebrían refused to meet his eyes, standing as straight and proud as her mother despite the deepening cold. At last he retreated as well, leaving Celebrimbor alone with the two women. 

They both faced him, Galadriel with her arm around Celebrían, who was tall for a girl her age but not yet grown to her full stature. Mother and daughter stood in the snow, both wearing identical expressions of utter distaste for the person in front of them. At last the combined wrath of his female relatives proved too much for Celebrimbor, and he turned to leave. He called back over his shoulder, casually, “You have until dawn to pack. My warriors and I will see you to the gates of the city to ensure that you are _safely_ on the road.” Then he was gone.

A few moments later, Galadriel felt her knees give out. She sank to the ground, sobbing so hard her whole body heaved and rocked like a ship caught in a storm. Part of her watched the display with disgust; she hadn’t cried this hard since childhood. Not when her brothers died, not when Melian left, not when Doriath or Sirion fell. 

“Naneth?” Celebrían knelt in the snow beside her, placing a worried hand gently on her mother’s shoulder. Galadriel pulled her daughter into a tight hug, anger burning within her once more when she felt how cold the child was. 

He had dragged her daughter from her bed and forced the girl to kneel in the cold snow while he threatened her life. He had cut off Galadriel’s hair, an assault on her dignity and identity. He had taken her husband from her. He had watched her and coveted her. 

He had won, but it would not last. Something stood in Celebrimbor’s path, something dark and destructive and out of her sight. It would not be her; she would leave Eregion for good, and attend to matters elsewhere. It would certainly not come from Celeborn. Whatever darkness lay in store for Celebrimbor, it would be of his own making.


End file.
